One for the Road
by noenigma
Summary: Perhaps, policing isn't for Hathaway...or rather, maybe Hathaway isn't for it.


_Author's Note: I think reading the press release for Series Seven with its hints about Hathaway rethinking his place once again must have birthed this one. The Morse referenced here is _Service of All the Dead.

Disclaimer: Purely for fan purposes. No copyright infringement intended.

**One for the Road**

"How do you know?" Hathaway demanded. "Have you ever killed a man?"

Lewis' frown deepened into a glare. Sometimes, he was sick and tired of discharging his duties as a senior officer. Or maybe it was just being a senior officer to a brooder like Hathaway. Like Morse. Felt too deeply, they did. Thought too much. And him, always stuck trying to keep them from sinking beneath the waves. Always having to come up with words to turn their maudlin thoughts and oppressive feelings away—only there was no turning them away. Only tamping them down and hoping they didn't eat their way out from the inside. And Lewis was sick of it.

Did Hathaway think he enjoyed having to dredge up his worst moments trying to come up with something encouraging or bracing to keep the sergeant afloat? Nothing like. Hathaway was too much like Morse. Knowing far too well what the job cost them while assuming it came cheap and easy to the rest of them. Though that probably wasn't fai—

"Well? Have you?" Hathaway demanded again because when he got this way anger seemed to be his only defense.

But, for once, Lewis refused to let him push him where he didn't want to go. He'd opened himself up again and again for Hathaway, exposing things best left buried and if not forgotten, at least out of mind. And for what? To be asked to do it again the next time the lad ran into difficulties, and the next time.

Staring into Hathaway's white face, Lewis recognized there'd never be an end of it. He'd never be able to talk away Hathaway's demons no matter how many painful memories he dredged up. Sure he could swallow hard and answer that question as much as he'd rather not, and he could live with the aftermath of stirring up the past—he'd survived it the first time; it wouldn't kill him now.

But in the end…it was there in Hathaway's eyes; he was going. Sooner or later, no matter what Lewis said or didn't say, policing and all that it entailed wasn't something his sergeant was going to be able to stomach forever.

"What if I have, Sergeant? Does it make the least bit of difference as far as this is concerned? It's what you've done that's eating you…what you've done and what you think that makes you because there's not a person pointing a finger at you but yourself. The other lads, Innocent, me…we've all told you, you didn't kill that man—he did that himself. You were just doing your job, but…if you can't accept that— " Lewis shrugged.

"I can't!"

Lewis nodded his head and said, "I know, but neither can I do it for you."

ILILILILIL

"I think," Lewis said slowly to the dark amber depths of his pint, "that we're losing Hathaway. "

Laura Hobson, sitting beside him running her finger over the rim of her own glass as she patiently waited for him to spit out what it was he'd dragged her out of the morgue to talk over this time, raised her eyebrows in response. In acknowledgement, not surprise. Nothing new that. Same old problem raising its head once again.

When Lewis took another swig instead of continuing, she said, "Give him a bit of time, Robbie—I'm not even done with the preliminary on the report. You'll settle him down—you always do."

Lewis sent her a quick glance over his glass and shook his head. "Not this time."

There was something final in his voice as he spoke those words. Something resigned, weary, and old. "You've thought that before," she protested, but he settled his glass on the table, sat back, and met her gaze.

"I'm done this time though," he said.

"You? I thought we were talking about Hathaway?"

"We are. Him and me. Sure, I can—like as not—bring him around like I have in the past. But, what good will it do? Next time I turn around, it'll need doing again. And again." He sighed loudly and shook his head decisively. "It's not what he wants, it's not what he is…he should have it left years ago, only me making him stay."

"Yes, Robbie. Because it's where he belongs. He knows it whether he likes it or not. He only needs reminding…"

"If he wants to go this time…I'm letting him."

Laura frowned at him wondering why exactly he'd brought her along. Not for the usual pep talk apparently as he was bound and determined not to hear it. She reached out and placed her hand over his. He looked down at it and sniffed.

Then he looked back at her and she could clearly see the regret in his weathered face as he said, "It's a shame. He could have been…still, can't force him to be what he can't. Too bloody vulnerable by half and I can't grow him a thicker skin, can I? Ahh…maybe it'll be better for him way away." He fell quiet for a moment, watching her and thinking who knew what. Then he turned his hand underneath hers to clasp it and said, "I told him he needed a partner. Can't do this job alone and it not gut you—if you don't have someone, it's the booze or worse covering it all up until the damage is done and there's no picking up the pieces."

And that was why she was there when she should have been finishing up her report on Hathaway's man and getting on to the next body. Not for a pep talk, medical opinion, or fresh perspective; just to sit quietly and help absorb the struggles and pains of life when they got too big for one soul to take and to share the joys and triumphs as well when they were too great to contain. There were times…well, she recognized the weariness in him well enough.

She didn't always feel up to this sort of thing. Not something she was confident she had it in her to give or be. Not what she'd signed up for, was it? Only she hadn't signed up, been drafted in really. A substitute for Val, pulled off the bench when the need became too great and relegated back to it when—no, not relegated. Slouching thankfully back off to the bench when he could afford to let her go. Her choice. He'd always left it her choice. As now he was leaving it Hathaway's.

"So…if he wants to go, I'll not be keeping him at it any longer," Lewis concluded.

Laura blinked over at him wondering if one day he'd come to the same conclusion about her. "Don't give up on him, Robbie," she said quietly.

"I'm not that…I'd not wash my hands of him if he finds something else to do with his life. He's a good man. A good friend. I'll not hold it against him if the police isn't what he wants. Sure miss him though."

_And me?_ She wanted to ask, but his hand was warm against hers and for today, sharing his regrets wasn't more than she could bear.

"Maybe it won't come to that," she said and added, "Better drink up…I've got to get back."

ILILILILIL

The stairway hadn't been that steep, but it might as well have been the way the man he'd been chasing crashed down them.

"I ran a bit when I was a young copper," Lewis had told him in the warm sun of a not-so-distant summer day. "Shouted 'Oi, you!'. Sometimes quite loudly. Usually did the trick." Hathaway had not shouted 'Oi, you!', just 'Stop police!' but he'd managed to send it echoing through the stairwell loudly enough. What he'd done: the shout, the running…it had done the trick all right. Brought his man to a stop there on those last few steps.

The sounds of the man's body thumping down the stairs, his startled exclamation, his broken groans that turned to ominous silence while Hathaway had stood over him, gasping in air, and desperately trying not to see the awkward angle of the man's neck and the small dribble of bright red, bubbly blood in the corner of his mouth…why had the man ran? And why, oh, why, had Hathaway chased him instead of letting uniform track him down? It wasn't like he was a suspect—only a witness, less than that, only a possible witness. He could have answered Hathaway's few questions and walked away. Instead, he'd run and he'd died…

And Hathaway was done. Full stop. Small letters done, but final anyway.

Innocent wasn't happy with it. She'd talked them both blue in the face, but he was still done. Oh, in the end, she'd done what she'd wanted. Written 'Personal Leave' in the blanks in flowing, dark black letters and said with her forced cheer and smile, "Let's leave it at that, shall we? Keep things open for when you're ready to come back." Hathaway left her to her false hope and with a nod and one last 'Ma'am' walked out of her office.

Lewis was sitting back in his desk chair, gently knocking a pen against his teeth. Hathaway paused outside the office and watched him through the glass for a moment. As he'd watched him countless times in the seven years they'd shared this office. No one glancing in would think much of the sight. Lewis whiling away the minutes until it was time to go home. Only, Hathaway had learned very quickly that wasn't it at all. He'd sat at his own desk and watched Lewis solve cases that had them all stumped just sitting there, staring somewhat vacantly at things no one else could see, fiddling with a pencil or pen, drumming softly on his desk…_thinking_.

And if that had been the end of the job, Hathaway could have stuck with it. He wouldn't be standing here, nervously shuffling his feet, working up his nerve to tell his governor he was chucking it in. Thinking he could do though_ thinking_ like a detective was a far cry from any thinking he'd done before joining the CID. On your feet and lightning quick. Thinking past the roadblocks and falsehoods thrown up in your way at every turn. Solving a puzzle that had no rules, no guideline, and ever changing clues. Never losing sight of the whole picture while not missing the tiniest detail…it was a challenging way of thinking, exhilarating really when it all came together and you knew you'd outwitted the bad guys. He'd taken to that part of the job, and he knew already it would be _what_ he missed the most about it. And the man sitting there doing it, the man who'd taught him how to do it…that was _who_ he'd miss the most.

But, unfortunately, for all the times he'd sat and watched Lewis solve crimes at his desk, most of that sort of work was done outside the station. Out among the public. The masses of humanity in all their glory and in all their vileness. And always there was at least one dead body in the mix. Someone sent off (usually violently) to meet their Maker, leaving the puzzle of their life and death for the cops to piece together by mucking about in people's lives and exposing all their secrets (good and bad, trivial and significant)…and sometimes, in the process, destroying more lives than the murderer they were after.

And through it all, they were supposed to—had to if they were to do the job right and come through human themselves—be able to look at all those masses of exposed human frailty, evilness, and goodness and see their fellow men. Always. No matter how many murderers they knew were out there, no matter how many petty, vile, despicable villains they came up against, always they had to remember the world was full of good, everyday people who needed them to not forget that every one of them mattered and protecting them was what it was all about. Not the challenge, not the thrill of solving the crime…the people.

People had never been Hathaway's strong point. Books, old documents, computer records, he'd always felt more comfortable with them. Still, he'd watched and he'd learned and he'd managed to master the fine art of observing, listening, and interacting with victims, witnesses, suspects, and those who fell somewhere in between. He'd learned to note their expressions and body language as much as their words, hear the lies in their voice and see the truth in their eyes, and even discern when their lies were just attempts to keep their secrets covered and not admissions of guilt. He'd never be the expert at it like his boss, but he could do a bit better than just squeak by. And if he'd never enjoyed the process, he'd grown to enjoy overcoming its challenges. He still preferred his books and old papers, but he wouldn't have let the people part of the job send him packing.

It was the other that had done for him. That all-important necessity of always remembering that the people mattered. Every single one of them. The one who might just end up being the bad guy as much as the victim…at least until guilt was proven. He'd been losing sight of that for a good long time before he'd chased a man to his death simply because he'd gotten spooked and ran at the sight of a cop. He'd tried with everything he had in him to not give in to callousness or indifference. He'd tried to look at others with God's compassion and forgiveness. Failing that, he'd tried to look at them with Lewis' slightly cynical, frequently bemused, often disgusted, but always understanding way. And he'd failed in that too.

He'd chased that man to his death and he'd regretted the paperwork and hours lost in procedural reviews and interviews more than he'd regretted the man's loss. And the regret he did feel had been buried under his anger and irritation—why hadn't the man stopped? Why had he disregarded a police challenge and ran? Instead of feeling guilty, he'd felt the man had gotten just what he'd deserved. Only for an instant. Less than the time it took him to make the call for help. But it had been there. Before his horror and guilt had taken his feet out from under him and left him shaking on the floor beside the already cooling body of the man he'd killed. He wasn't fit for the job. He'd always suspected it and now he knew.

He shook himself and moved to the door. Lewis frowned up at him when he entered the room. Without a word the inspector held out an old case file to Hathaway. Determined to get this over with and escape, Hathaway opened his mouth, but Lewis cut him off.

"Before you say anything, read this," he ordered. With a sigh, Hathaway took the file.

"What is it?" he asked though the words 'What am I looking at?' almost slipped through first. Lewis' words. Ones Hathaway had grown so accustomed to hearing that they'd almost become his own.

"The answer to your question," Lewis told him, standing up and slipping his suit coat off the back of his chair.

His question. Hathaway had asked a hundred questions, a thousand, probably even more of Lewis in the seven years they'd worked together. Some in casual banter, some in deadly seriousness. Some worth the time it had taken to learn the answer and some not worth the air Lewis had wasted replying. Still, the weight of the file heavy in his hand as he sat down in his seat, he knew what question Lewis intended this file to answer. And it was one answer Hathaway thought he might rather not learn.

The door shut quietly behind Lewis as Hathaway blew out a resigned puff of air and began reading.

_…I heard a commotion on the rooftop. Voices. A shout. Sounds of a scuffle. I ran up the tower steps. Rushing onto the roof, I saw Chief Inspector Morse on his back with a man over him. The man had his hands around the chief inspector's neck, and DCI Morse was kicking and struggling beneath him. There was a candlestick in my hand, I must have grabbed it from the belfry on the way up. I brought it down, hard, against the man's back. He left off fighting DCI Morse and turned to me, but he could not seem to get his feet under him. He stumbled backward, over the parapet. I ascertained that DCI Morse was not in immediate distress. Miss Rawlinson arrived on the scene, and I left her to attend to the chief inspector. I descended the tower and found the man who had been struggling with DCI Morse on the pavement. It was apparent he was dead. Because of the extent of the injuries I did not attempt resuscitation. I left the body only long enough to call for back up and then returned to secure the scene. R. Lewis, Sgt., Thames Valley CID_

_…I was close to unconsciousness… I was not aware Sergeant Lewis had arrived on the roof and cannot say what happened next… my assailant quit choking me...DS Lewis was asking if I was all right. Josephs was nowhere in sight, and I assumed he had fled. I was confused as to why Lewis had not given chase…I found DS Lewis guarding Josephs' body. At that time, Lewis informed me he had struck Josephs with the candlestick and believed in doing so he'd caused Josephs to become unbalanced and stumble over the edge. DCI Morse, Thames Valley CID _

_Upon arriving on the scene, I was met by DS Robert Lewis who informed me he had hit the victim soundly on the upper back with a heavy, metal candlestick to stop his attack on Morse. The sergeant believed his blow had been sufficiently violent to cause the man to stumble backward off of the roof. After examination, I found evidence that supported that supposition as noted in the forensic report…caused by a forceful blow to the upper back…not sufficient to cause incapacitation or permanent injury... scratches and bruising evident on the body…not consistent with being forcefully pushed…in short, I found no evidence suggesting the blow was meant to kill, nor would it have in ordinary circumstances... Max DeBryn, M.D., Home Office Pathologist._

_Skin fragments and scratches consistent with a struggle…matches found to both Miss Ruth Rawlinson and DCI Morse. No forensic evidence was found indicating the victim had been in a physical contact with DS Lewis. Otto Shumgarner, Forensic Technologist._

A lot of words in black and white. Old papers indeed. Hathaway straightened the typed reports, closed the file, tapped a long finger over it, and wondered what he was supposed to do with what he'd just learned. For one reason or another, he'd thought the answer mattered when he'd flung his question in Lewis' face. He'd demanded an answer and been furious when Lewis wouldn't give him one. Yet, Lewis had been adamant it didn't make any difference; that only Hathaway's own actions and assessments figured into the equation. So why hand him the file now? After he well knew his sergeant had spent the past hour with the chief super, and he had to have a good guess what they'd spent that time discussing? And when he was right after all…what had happened way back then to Sergeant Lewis and what he had done, it couldn't change the fact that today there was a body in the morgue Sergeant Hathaway had put there.

He found Lewis at their usual table nursing a pint.

Lewis glanced up at him when Hathaway sat across from him, and then gazed back at his ale as he asked, "You read it?"

"Yep," Hathaway said though the word stuck in his throat.

"So. Now you know."

And he did. Not from the file, but from Lewis' fascination with his drink. Whatever his intent, whatever the justifications, whatever the findings enumerated on those old papers, Lewis had to answer the question 'Have you ever killed a man?' with a yes.

"No one out and out accused me, mind. But…I killed him."

"Only in a matter of speaking, Sir. More an accident, surely." He willed Lewis to look over at him and give him that conspiratorial grin and nod that said he'd made his point and it was time to drink up. He didn't.

"My blow's what sent him over though. Mine. I didn't mean for it to happen, and God knows if anyone deserved it, it was Harry Josephs. But. He took his time going over, and I just watched him do it…never even reached out towards him. Just stood there with that candlestick in my hand and let him go. And that's not the end of it. I was glad, me…couldn't think why I hadn't just grabbed him and chucked him over meself."

"I can't believe that, Sir…only for a moment, surely?"

"Not even that I suppose, but…"

"And then?"

Lewis shrugged. "I don't know… can't remember much of anything. Just did what had to be done as if I hadn't been the one who'd sent him off that roof. Shock, I reckon." He swirled the ale around in his glass and then gulped down a good mouthful or two. "And then I went home, got good and sick, cried a bit in me cups, and the next morning, I went into work."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm not saying anything."

"All that…you didn't think of quitting?"

"Nah…what good would that have done? Job still needed done, and it was mine to do."

"You didn't think…you know? Maybe after what had happened…you weren't…the man for the job?"

"Nope. That's the difference between you and me, Hathaway."

Even in Hathaway's distress, he bristled at the implication, "Sir?"

"Always second guessing yourself, aren't you? Always thinking you should have done more or better. Me? Do what I can and call it good. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn't, but there's nothing else for it but to keep on going."

They sat there quietly for a few more minutes Lewis staring at his drink and Hathaway at his hands. He'd been there when a man had died, but he hadn't pushed him, hadn't even wished him dead. His hands were clean.

But, Lewis was right. For him, that wasn't enough. Would never be enough. "Why do you have to be better than everyone else?" Lewis had once asked him, and Hathaway had had no answer. Lewis had watched a man fall to his death and felt glad because that man had been a murderer four times over even if he hadn't been attempting to kill Morse. Lewis had faced what he'd done and what he'd felt and went on. Why couldn't Hathaway do the same? He didn't have the answer for that either, but he knew he couldn't.

"You've never considered walking away in all those years?"

Lewis finally turned his eyes towards Hathaway. "No, I said. What else would I do, man? It's what I know, it's what I am."

'And what you're good at."

"And you."

"Maybe, but…it's not what I am. Not really. I've tried, but…"

"Hathaway…"

"It's no good, Sir. Time for me to go."

"I wish you wouldn't."

Hathaway nodded his acknowledgement as he stood up. "Thank you, Sir…for everything."

"Sit down, Hathaway," Lewis said. "Let me buy you one…for the road."

Hathaway hesitated a moment before sitting back down. "For the road."

_Author's Notes: _Service of All the Dead_ is not one of my favourite episodes for all it turns up so frequently in my writing. I thought I'd covered it more than enough in my Morse story _What the Sergeant Saw: The St. Oswald's Murders_, but I couldn't think of another instance to do the job…hopefully it's not too redundant._


End file.
